


221B Nativity

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Humour, Mycroft finds feelings difficult, Mycroft is frequently not amused, Navigating relationships, William wants to impress his father, nativity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8681347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: William John Holmes-your son with Mycroft-really, really wants to be the Archangel Gabriel in his school Nativity. But when his failure to get the part brings back an old problem in your relationship with Mycroft will your small family be able to rally itself in time for Christmas Day?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thanks so much for your support. :)   
> I hope you enjoy this. :)

William John Holmes, so named after his Uncle and his Uncle’s best friend, is determined to be an angel. More particularly the Archangel Gabriel. In fact you have never seen your six-year-old son be more determined about anything in all his life and the dinner the night before the cast list of the school Nativity is announced is a restless one. 

 

“I must get the part. I must,” William announces over his ham, runner beans, mashed potato and thin brown gravy, which his cutlery splashes at. He’s got your eyes under a messier version of his father Mycroft’s hair and he looks at you both imploringly as he sits there in jeans and a smart white shirt, which is covered by a grey sweater vest. Rosa, your Yorkshire terrier, nudges at the boy’s leg, reminding him of her presence. 

 

“Why do you want the part so much sweetheart?” you ask, still a little baffled by your son’s passion about all this as you sit there in a tartan dress, which matches Rosa’s collar over your jeans. You've heard of nothing else for the past week and a half. 

 

“Father’s a messenger aren't you Father?” 

 

Mycroft, in a grey three-piece suit with blue tie, silver tie-pin and white shirt, finishes chewing and swallowing his last mouthful of mashed potato, before he says consideringly, “Yes, I am I suppose. A messenger between all the different government departments, although”- you place a hand on his, knowing that he’ll ramble on if you don’t and he smiles at you indulgently. 

 

“I'm going to be a messenger too. I want to be just like you when I grow up Father,” William declares, causing Mycroft and you to exchange a fond look. 

 

Mycroft’s brow though soon furrows. “You know though don’t you William,” he says, looking back at his son, “That there are many other worthy parts”-

 

William shakes his head stubbornly. “That one is the only one I want.”

 

*

 

“I'm rather afraid that he’s setting himself up for disappointment,” Mycroft says when he slips into bed beside you that night, sitting up and clutching at the covers rather than lying down next to you as he wears a grey coloured t-shirt and dark blue boxer shorts. 

 

You, in your light blue pyjamas, twist around and sit up too. Your hand goes to his arm placatingly. “He’ll be all right,” you soothe, stroking at the freckled skin that’s there. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft frowns, “I'm sure he will be in time.” He looks back at you. “But if there should come a point tomorrow when he needs me then you will get in touch won’t you?”

 

“Of course.” You lean across and peck at his shoulder. “If there’s any trouble then I’ll contact you.”

 

“Good,” Mycroft says, “Because I know this isn't perhaps as bad as what happened before and you didn't contact me then but”-

 

“Myc it will be all right,” you rub at his back when he continues to look anxious, “Anyway the only reason I didn't get in touch with you then was because I was handling it. All I had to do was pick William up and take him to the dentist. It was no big deal”-

 

“I'm still sure that, that toy brick was thrown deliberately,” Mycroft grumbles. 

 

“But we have no proof that it was. William never said such a thing and you know how vocal he is about these matters.”

 

“I'm glad he takes after you in that sense,” Mycroft acknowledges, “But I still wish that you could have contacted me.”

 

“You had an important meeting that day,” you protest. 

 

“But there is nothing more important than the welfare of our child or you to me,” Mycroft goes on, his voice raised high in anguish. 

 

“Myc we've been through this. I did what I believed to be best at the time”-

 

“Yes, but it was most alarming my dear when young William said what he did when I got home and I later found out that you’d even stopped his security team from contacting me.”

 

“I know, but let’s not argue about it again.” You rub at his hand and tilt your head down against his shoulder. “William was all right after that and he’s going to be all right again now.”

 

“I hope so,” Mycroft says, turning to kiss you gently on the forehead, before he lies down. You do the same and the bedside light goes off a moment later. 

 

“Something happened before didn't it?” you ask, rolling towards him. “With Sherlock that reminds you of this?”

 

Mycroft puts a hand on your waist. You shift closer together. “Sherlock wanted to be Gabriel when he was younger too,” he admits softly. 

 

“Did he get the part?” you ask. 

 

“No.”

 

You stiffen. Mycroft rubs at your side. “What happened?” 

 

Mycroft rolls away from you, but you press closer, kissing at his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his middle. You can feel his breathing, which had started to quicken slow down again. Your fingers make gentle administrations against his top. Mycroft rolls back to face you, touching at your leg. “He threw a tantrum and then, eventually, after several days of muttered complaint he moved on.” You can make out him half-smiling at you ruefully in the dark and you feel better from seeing it because you know that he probably accepts that he’s being a bit silly about all this. 

 

Still feeling a little uneasy however and sensing there’s more you ask, “But?”

 

_“But,”_ Mycroft acknowledges, stroking at your side softly, “Things like that stay with you. You feel like you’ve been denied something, something that should have rightfully been yours. You can grow resentful, and if enough such incidents occur then”- he breaks off awkwardly, but he’s said enough for you to understand. 

 

“I don’t think I’d mind too much if he turned out like Sherlock,” you say a moment later, smiling a bit. “I’d be worried as hell sure if he did the same job, but…your brother’s heart is in the right place.”

 

“The drugs,” Mycroft barely gets the words out. His voice sounds suddenly hoarse, regretful. 

 

Sensing that he needs you in that moment you tuck your head underneath his chin and stroke at his side. “William’s going to be fine,” you reassure him. Mycroft makes a little sound of acknowledgement, but the worry is still there between you when the pair of you drift off to sleep. 

 

*

 

William is not fine. You’re frantic. You’re at home in the sitting room in your jeans and autumn coloured turtle-neck and you’ve just had a phone call from your son’s school. In between trying to stay calm about it all your fumbling fingers make to call Mycroft’s mobile on the land line. 

 

He answers almost immediately. “F/N?” You try to get the words out, but your stomach’s too tight, your head’s a mess and in the end all you can get past your throat is a gurgle. _“F/N?”_ comes Mycroft’s voice and you can hear a rustling noise down the line as if he’s just stood up from his desk in a fit of anxiety and the dark suit that he’s wearing today along with a maroon coloured tie and white shirt has made a noise of protest. 

 

Knowing that you have to try and get the words out you say, “Myc I need you. I-I’ve just had a phone call from William’s school a-and William’s gone missing.” Saying the words makes it feel more real and you retch. Nothing comes up. “Oh God.” 

 

“I'm on my way F/N”-

 

“Hang on, I think something just came through on my mobile. Can I call you back?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

You hang up. A text has just come through from Sherlock and seeing it makes you let out a little cry and lean forwards somewhat. **Don’t worry, but William’s with me. SH.**

 

You phone Mycroft back and tell him the good news. You arrange to meet at Baker Street and you find yourselves arriving there at the same time, walking down opposite sides of the street to meet in the middle at the black door. 

 

Mycroft holds you away from him with one hand by your shoulders-his other is occupied with his umbrella. He kisses at the top of your hair when he sees that you’re still feeling shaken and a little breathless by everything. “It’s all right,” he rubs at your arm, “Come.” He takes your hand in his and straightens the knocker on the door with his other around his umbrella, before he uses it to knock. The door is opened by a flustered looking Mrs. Hudson a moment later, clearly halfway through baking if the fact that she’s got flour down the front of her floral top and purple apron is anything to go by. Yet you’ve done no more than clap your eyes on her when Mycroft’s pulling you past her and dragging you upstairs. You don’t even have time to smile at her apologetically. 

 

You find William-in his grey school trousers, red jumper with yellow school logo on in the top, right hand corner, white shirt with red and blue tie-sitting on John’s old armchair in the sitting room. His Uncle-in a purple shirt and smart black trousers-is sat opposite him. They’re both looking perfectly unconcerned as they talk and only break off to look at Mycroft and you after a moment. 

 

“Oh thank God,” you breathe, putting a hand to your chest and swaying. Mycroft lets go of your hand and puts an arm tightly around your middle to support you. You let out a few breaths and lean into him. 

 

“I didn't get the part,” William says, looking at you both mournfully. 

 

A flash of anger sizzles inside Mycroft and he lets go of you, stepping towards his son. He stabs the air with his umbrella as he says, “The part? Do you think that your mother and I care about the part?” William opens his mouth. _“No,”_ Mycroft swipes his free hand cuttingly across the air, “She was almost sick on the phone when she called me. That’s how worried about you she was.” William pales. His eyes dart to you, before they go back to his father. You can see how sorry he is just by that one action, but Mycroft, who is obviously too worked up to see such a thing, goes on, “I had to leave work and your mother’s supposed to be off on sabbatical doing research and writing her book, not trying to find you because you’ve somehow managed to evade all the school’s protection and mine and go missing. Don’t ever do that again.” Your husband points using the umbrella once more. 

 

“There was a hole in the fence,” Sherlock provides helpfully. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft draws himself up, “Well there’ll be more than a hole in the fence after F/N and I take William back to school and talk to his teachers.”

 

“But”- William protests. 

 

“How did you even get here?” Mycroft questions. 

 

“Once I got away I used my lunch money to pay for the bus,” William says as if he was being inventive.

 

“The bus,” Mycroft shakes his head. You place a hand on his arm. He looks back at you. “Well, come on William,” he glances back down at his son, “We’re going to take you back now.”

 

“But I don’t want to go,” William says, sinking further back inside his armchair, “Uncle Sherlock said that he’d help me make my own nativity and that it would be better than anything ‘those idiots’ could ever put on.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes narrow and sensing danger you tighten your grip on him. “Yes, well I wish that your uncle would refrain from teaching you such language.”

 

“ ‘Idiot’s,’ not a swear word is it?” William’s eyes light up. “Idiot. _Idiot,”_ he tests it out delicately upon his tongue. 

 

_“William,”_ you say warningly when you feel Mycroft tensing beneath you. 

 

“Uncle’s right though,” William says, “I'm not even going to be able to see any of the school one”-

 

“Why ever not?” Mycroft asks, swinging his arm forwards slightly. You let go of him and lower your hand. 

 

“Because they made me the back end of the donkey,” William flushes. 

 

_“Right,”_ Mycroft huffs, sounding even madder if that’s possible. He passes you his umbrella, swoops forwards and lifts William out of his chair and into his arms, so that the boys legs are sideways around his middle. William looks at his father in awe, one of his arms around his shoulders and the fingers of his other touching delicately at Mycroft’s hair, before he turns his head to look at you. “We’re going to the school because no one makes my son the rear end of the donkey.” 

 

Sherlock smirks as father and son move swiftly out and you exchange a quick, harried look with him, before you follow out after your small family. 

 

* 

 

“Please don’t make a scene,” you look at your husband once one of his usual black cars has stopped outside the school. 

 

Mycroft looks at you levelly, before he gets out of the car without a word. You let out a bit of a sigh, before you gesture that William should follow after him. You do so also, leaving the umbrella in the car. A breeze is blowing across the car park and Mycroft lifts William up into the same position he’d done so, whilst at Sherlock’s. He takes your hand just as Headmistress Evelyn Price comes out of the main doors of the vast brown building that’s in front of you. Her dark brown hair blows behind her and her green eyes soften slightly behind their glasses, which are attached to a chain when she sees William. Her violet blouse is creased and her black skirt swirls about her legs as she walks. 

 

“Oh William. Thank goodness,” she says, “Your parents must be so relieved.” She stops in front of you. 

 

William just stares at her obstinately. You open your mouth; about to say that yes you’re happy to have found him, when Mycroft squeezes at your hand to stop you. You peer up at him curiously, but his eyes are examining the Headmistress coolly. “The matter of William’s absence from the school, as you can see, has been resolved Headmistress. He’d decided to take a trip to his Uncle’s and I can’t say that I very much blame him. What was the meaning in giving him such an obscure role in the school Nativity?” You swallow and try to nudge at Mycroft’s side discreetly. He ignores you, his gaze remaining fixed on the Headmistress who you now look at a little embarrassedly. 

 

“Well,” the Headmistress says, no doubt feeling flustered herself and she wipes her glasses for a moment on her blouse, before she replaces them. “Someone has to play that role Mr. Holmes.”

 

“I believe that my son made it clear to you though, which role he wanted to play?” Mycroft asks her testily. 

 

“He did,” she admits with a nod, “But there were other children better suited to the part”-

 

“ ‘Better suited to the part?’ This is a school Nativity Mrs. Price, not a West End play,” Mycroft scoffs. 

 

_“Mycroft,”_ you say underneath your breath, assuming a fixed smile upon your face when the Headmistress looks back at you, before her gaze goes back to your husband. 

 

“Children who performed better in their auditions”-

 

“Just how well does William have to do to get the part that he wants? He’s been taking singing and dance lessons outside of school and one of your own teachers assured me that he’s got potential and doing well in his drama class, or are you now saying that, that’s a lie and I’ve been wasting my money by sending him here?” He draws himself up and William wriggles uncomfortably. “Perhaps you’re also forgetting who gave you the money to re-furbish the courtyard into an area of greenery less than a year ago?” Mycroft goes on. 

 

“This school is run on fairness Mr. Holmes, not wealth”- 

 

“Clearly or there wouldn't be a hole in your fence, which I won’t be giving you the money to repair by the way. In fact after today I’ve got a good mind to withdraw William from the school completely. If you can’t even guarantee his safety then your establishment is clearly not as good as I’d previously believed it to be.” Your eyes widen a little and you feel suddenly annoyed. It’s not Mycroft’s choice alone to decide where William goes to school, but as you remember about the lapse in your husband’s own security, which had allowed William to go missing you think that Mycroft’s probably more annoyed about that than anything else. 

 

“That is of course your right Mr. Holmes. You have to do as you see fit for your child,” Price nods. 

 

Mycroft lets out a little ‘Humph’ and deposits William into a standing position on the ground. “For now however, since my wife and I need to get on with our days I'm going to entrust our son into your care. I hope that neither of us will receive another phone call saying that he’s got out again, before the end of the day.”

 

You can tell that Headmistress Price is tempted to retort, but she just swallows her words back down, gives you both a bit of a tight smile and a nod and guides William back into the building. 

 

*

 

“I won’t have to leave school will I?” William asks you that night when he’s tucked up in bed and you’ve just finished reading to him. The arms of his red and white pyjamas hold his blue duvet close. 

 

“I don’t think so sweetheart,” you shake your head, “Not if you don’t want to.” 

 

William sinks back against his pillow in relief. A moment passes between you, one where you just watch the way that his eyes shine in the soft lamplight. Then William says, “I'm sorry for making you worry Mum.”

 

You smile a little at him and stroke at his hair. “As long as you don’t do it again and you’re safe then I think I can live with what happened today,” you reassure him, straightening up. You exchange a fond, tired smile with one another, switch off the lamp and leave the room. As usual you leave the door a little ajar, so that you can hear if he needs you.

 

*

 

“We can’t take William out of that school. He’s settled there,” is the first thing that you tell Mycroft when you join him on the settee in the sitting room, tucking your leg underneath you as you sit and grab the book you’re currently reading for relaxation purposes from the side table. You’re in a red cardigan, white top and jeans. You’d felt like a change after all the running about you’d done in your turtle-neck, but Mycroft’s still in the white shirt and dark trousers that he’d been wearing earlier. He’s got a frown on his face despite the fact that he should be feeling more settled from being at home and in the warm fire’s glow. 

 

Mycroft lowers the newspaper he’d been reading and looks at you. “That may be so,” he says, “But if that wretched woman continues to insult our family”-

 

“Myc no one’s insulting anyone,” you rest your book on your lap. “There must be tons of disappointed kids who didn't get the part they want, not just at William’s school, but all the world over.” Mycroft huffs and you can tell that he’s thinking that it doesn’t matter about those other children because they’re not yours. William is. You look at him sideways. “How many people were fired today?” Mycroft faces the front and scrapes a tired hand across his face. _“Mycroft?”_ you push. 

 

“Seven,” he mumbles. You let out an aggravated breath. “Three of those people were going to go anyway.” He looks at you. 

 

“You just happened to choose today to”-

 

“The other four were from William’s security team.” He makes a frustrated sound and shifts his position. “It’s not asking much is it”-he keeps his eyes on you-“To have two people at the back of the school and two in the front? But they couldn't even stop him from leaving. Apparently he just ran off, none of them could catch him and all of them were too scared to inform me at once.” You raise an eyebrow at him as if to ask if he can blame them. “They thought that between them they’d manage to find him again, return him to school and we’d be none the wiser.” He shakes his head and you can tell that he thinks the workers he’s fired pathetic. “But,” he lets go of the newspaper and grasps at your hand, “Don’t worry my dear they've all been replaced.” 

 

“It’s not them that I'm worried about,” you confess, cupping at his cheek, “You were a little harsh on everyone today considering that William turned up safe.” 

 

“The situation concerned you, it concerned me,” Mycroft says, pulling your hand down in his and holding it between you. 

 

“But you don’t have to go so overboard and leave a cloud over everyone to try and impress me. I'm just glad that William’s safe and I want him to be happy, so that we can all get over this. I wouldn't have felt let down by you if you’d acted otherwise.” You pick up your book and take it with you as you leave the room. 

 

Mycroft stares after you. 

It is only an hour later when he’s just gone to bed himself and when you’re already asleep that he’s finally resolved things enough in his mind to say, “If I overreacted earlier then it is only because I couldn't bear the alternative of not doing enough and something dreadful happening.” He sits up in bed and peers down at where you’re illuminated thanks to the bedside lamp. You mumble something incoherently, still wrapped up in sleep and shift further away from him. Mycroft switches off the light, settles down behind you and places a gentle hand upon your waist. “I love you,” he murmurs, pushing his head close to your hair and breathing in your scent. 

 

“Mm,” you mutter senselessly. 

 

He gives your side a tender squeeze and wishes that he could have gotten the words out when you’d been able to properly hear them earlier, before he falls asleep himself. 

 

*

 

Despite Mycroft’s nightly musings William still seems to take the loss of the part better outwardly than him. He’s sulky and a little irritable for a couple of days it’s true, but you find that after letting William go to his uncle’s a few times in the week after school-via one of Mycroft’s black cars this time-and at the weekends, so that he can plan and prepare for his special Nativity his mood vastly increases. Mycroft if anything only becomes more sullen and thoughtful. You try to talk to him, but he seems lost in a worry that you can’t bring him out of. 

 

*

 

The night of the proper Nativity arrives and Mycroft and you find yourselves sitting amongst the crowd a little awkwardly. Mycroft always feels terribly self-conscious at these things and the fact that he’s chosen to come in his grey, pinstripe three-piece suit, is carrying his usual umbrella and tuts loudly every time he sees the donkey does not exactly help him to stand out any less. You grab at his hand and squeeze at it, but he still continues to make a sound. 

 

At the end when you both meet William backstage and Mycroft gives his son a rather absent-minded hug, looking vaguely like he has toothache, you make sure to give William an extra large embrace to make up for it. 

 

*

 

“Was Father cross with me tonight?” William asks once he’s in bed that night and you’ve finished your usual routine. “He barely said anything to me afterwards. He didn't even say, ‘Well done,’ like you did,” he adds in an injured tone. 

 

“Oh no,” you feel a pang, wishing that Mycroft had at least managed to be less thoughtful for the sake of your son. You stroke at his hair reassuringly. “I think he still felt disappointed that you didn't get the part you want that’s all.” William nods, but still looks sad about it.

 

When you slip into bed behind Mycroft as the light of the bedside lamp makes his hair shine you feel like you must venture, “William was a little upset with you tonight.”

 

“With _me?”_ Mycroft asks, rolling around to face you in astonishment as if he can hardly believe such a thing. 

 

“Yes,” you swallow. You place your hand tentatively on his side. “What’s going on with you lately? You've been in a mood ever since the day William went missing.” Mycroft’s face darkens, before he lets out a bit of a breath and turns around. He shuffles to the furthest point where he can still be in bed, but away from you. “Don’t do that. We talk to each other. That’s what we agreed wasn’t it? That it should never take weeks, months or even a year”-you reference how long it had taken Mycroft to tell you that he loved you-“To tell the other what’s on our minds if it’s really important because we trust one another.” Still Mycroft does not respond in words and the small, but prominent shift of his shoulder away from you makes you feel suddenly angry and pained by his behaviour and general stupidity. _“Fine!”_ you announce sharply, turning away from him with a thump and settling down on your side. 

 

Mycroft’s brow furrows at your tone and he swings around, so that he can look at you. You’re now the one on the edge of the bed and with your small frame as far away from him as possible. “There’s no need to be childish about this F/N.”

 

“Neither one of us can afford to be childish,” you blow out a breath, rolling to face him, “Not when we've got a child who needs us.” You stare into his eyes pleadingly. His mouth drops open for a moment, before he turns away from you once more. Feeling desperate you roll away from him and it’s not long, before your shoulders begin to shake as you cry. 

 

It takes Mycroft a moment to feel the tremor of the bed vibrating, but as soon as he does so his lips part and he swings back around. “F/N,” he touches at your shoulder feeling guilty. 

 

“I-I know,” you shrug him off and sit up, “That it took a long time for you to tell me that you l-loved me, but now you have and we’re married and have got a child together c-could you just”- you break off, tears streaming down your face. 

 

“Shh,” Mycroft soothes, sitting up too and pulling you close. His face is pale as his hands make to stroke at your hair. You end up hiccuping, crying and gurgling as you sit in between his legs. Your hands fumble as they try and help stem your tears. “Shh. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you upset,” he murmurs. You nod, trying to pull yourself together. You just find things hard sometimes and this is one of those moments. “It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’ll try and do better. I’ll try and do better.”

 

“But you’re okay?” you ask pathetically, feeling a great desperate desire to establish such a thing. 

 

“Yes, my love I'm okay,” Mycroft kisses at your hand. Again you nod as you try and take that information in, convince yourself of it. He lets go of your hand and rakes his through his hair. “I just get frustrated sometimes. When people fail to understand William and I. When I see his teachers blatantly doing such a thing. It upsets me. He really wanted that part.”

 

“You’re not actually considering sending him to another school though are you?” you ask him worriedly. “I thought that was just something that you said in the heat of the moment. But you have to know that it would be more disruptive for him to have to start afresh now and build up those relationships. I know you aren't happy about what’s happened in the Nativity and you thought that the school wasn’t really getting his needs during parents evening, but it takes a while to understand a Holmes. They’re closer to getting him than a new school would be. We just need to be patient and give them more time.” 

 

Mycroft thinks about all that for a moment and rubs at your arms. Finally he says, “I won’t make any decisions without you.” He kisses at the top of your hair. You nod, your face still damp. “Come,” he murmurs, lying you back down, “You need to rest.” You nod and as the bedside lamp gets switched off and you shuffle against each other you feel hope inside you that maybe Mycroft can continue to be more honest with you. Honest with William too. You’d love for them to have less of an awkward relationship like they currently do where they don’t know how to act around each other and frequently make mistakes and more of an open, loving one. You drift off with Mycroft’s arm around you hoping that things can work out for the best. 

 

*

 

“Mummy, Father,” William says one night at dinner after taking a deep breath. Mycroft and you both look up from your pasta and exchange a bit of a glance, before your gazes go to him. Your son’s in a cream coloured sweater vest over a white shirt, a red bow-tie and smart dark trousers this evening. “The pair of you are cor-cordi”-

 

“ ‘Cordially?’” Mycroft prompts, a thin smile of amusement upon his face. He’s in a black suit, navy tie and white shirt. 

 

William flushes a little. “Yes that,” he says and you feel annoyed with Mycroft for embarrassing him, “To come to 221B this Saturday evening to see the Nativity that Uncle Sherlock and I are putting on.”

 

Mycroft’s face turns a little sourer. He leans back, his hands only loosely around his cutlery. You look at him a little worriedly as you sit there in your black jumper and jeans, before your gaze goes to William. “We’d love to,” you tell him, forcing a smile. “Wouldn't we?” you kick at Mycroft underneath the table, hoping that he daren’t say that he’s got work on. It might be Christmas Eve that upcoming Saturday, but that isn't a guarantee that Mycroft will be free. It’s possible, but he’s ended up working the past two ones. 

 

Mycroft winces as one of your black boots make contact with him. He is tempted to say that he _might_ have to pop into work, but one look at the threatening displeasure upon your face is enough to make him push out, “Yes, I'm sure that would be most enjoyable William.” The thought of attending a Nativity that’s put on by his brother and son isn't exactly appealing to him, but he doesn’t want to make you upset again. 

 

William frowns, feeling a little disappointed by his father’s reaction, but determined to put on the best Nativity ever and one that will hopefully make Mycroft happy. 

 

*

 

When you get to 221B, Baker Street that Christmas Eve and step through the black door, which has been left unlocked expectantly for your presence William-in his green jumper, white shirt and jeans-tells you that under no circumstances are either Mycroft and you to go upstairs until he’s called for you. He then dashes off to prepare everything with his uncle. 

 

Mycroft, in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie and who looks a bit ruffled about the fact that he can’t even get all this over with quickly glances at you. 

 

“Just try,” you plead in a smart black top and jeans. Mycroft does a double take. 

 

_“Try?”_ he says in an affronted fashion. 

 

“You know what I mean,” you say squeezing at his arm even though he doesn’t. You move forwards wearily and Mycroft stares after you as you head down the hallway to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. 

 

Despite your talk the other night Mycroft’s been his usual self. He might be treading a little more carefully around you, but he’s hardly been discussing his feelings with either William or you. At this rate you think that you’re going to have to make a manual of what exactly you want because no matter how you phrase it he just doesn’t seem to be getting it. 

 

Mycroft and you have a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson-in her purple dress and tights-who you engage with willingly, whilst Mycroft just leans back and peers at you out of narrowed eyes all the while. He always tries can’t you see that? Is this about the feelings thing again? But what do you expect from him? This is just a silly play being put on to occupy his brother’s bored mind and to make up for some of the disappointment that his son had felt at not getting the part that he’d wanted. It will probably be tongue in cheek and not something to take seriously. How is he supposed to conjure a soliloquy of emotion from that? From your perspective you surely don’t want him to give his honest opinion, which would be a cutting one? What is he supposed to do? Before he can do anything more than open his mouth to perhaps try and get you away from Mrs. Hudson and ask you about all this however, William’s loud voice calls, “We’re ready!”

 

“Ooh,” Mrs. Hudson says, leaning back from her tea, “I can’t wait can you?”

 

You smile and follow her as she makes to leave the flat, but before you can exit the door, Mycroft, now standing and staring after you, says, “F/N?” in the hope that you can give him some guidance. 

 

You swivel on your heel back to him and fold your arms. “Just try okay?” you repeat your message from earlier, before you add, “This means a lot to him. Just try and crack a smile even if you don’t particularly feel like it all right?”

 

“But F/N”- Mycroft goes on as you unfold your arms and turn away from him. He doesn’t understand how this can possibly mean as much to William as you seem to think it does. “My dear?” 

 

You huff out a breath and Mycroft doesn’t miss the way that your hands clench up by your sides even though he can’t see the way that you’re closing your eyes to try and maintain your composure as the blank hallway lies in front of you-Mrs. Hudson has already gone up. “William’s waiting for us,” you breathe, even though you want to tell him so much more. You want to tell him that all you can see when you watch Mycroft and William interacting is a boy who so desperately wants to impress his father. Who has made it one of his life’s missions, along with keeping you happy, to do such a thing. You want Mycroft’s pride to shine through, so that your son can understand that he’s already achieved his ambition. For Mycroft to realize that sometimes these things need to be said clearly for people to truly see the things that he might want them to. But you don’t feel like you can say any of that here because you’d probably end up getting upset and in any case your son’s waiting for you. You release a breath, before you move down the hallway. Mycroft follows you at a bit of a distance, still feeling at a bit of a loss as to what exactly it is that you want him to do. Usually he’d be able to tell such a thing from reading a person, but with you he always ends up hitting an emotional block. 

 

“Finally,” William breathes from where he’s standing by the sitting room entrance, now wearing a closed stripy robe over the clothes he’d been wearing earlier as you reach the landing. 

 

“Watch it,” you warn, though it’s only in a playful manner and you can’t help but smile as you reach to touch his hair. 

 

“Mum don’t, I’ve only just brushed it,” he dodges you. You’d never be able to tell you think. Smiling a little as if he’s read your mind he takes your hand and pulls you across the room to the settee. Mycroft follows after you both. William smiles at you and sits you down next to Mrs. Hudson who’s closest to the door. Mycroft sits on your other side. William leaves you and goes to stand in front of the square, painted backdrop that’s now in between the armchairs and, which has been done to look like the city of Nazareth. “Welcome to the 221B Nativity,” your son says proudly, looking between you all with a bit of a breathless anticipation about his face. 

 

Mrs. Hudson nods and you smile indulgently, but Mycroft takes out his pocket watch, flips it open and looks down at it as he says, “That’s nice of you to welcome us William, but how long is this all going to take?” You think that he’s asking because he’s determined not to enjoy it and that he wants to get out of there as fast as possible, but in actual fact he’s doing such a thing because he wants to try and talk privately with you and fix things. Get you to say what you want him to do, so that he can do it. Not knowing that though you nudge at him and send him a bit of a dark look, which makes him swallow as he looks at you, before you look back at William. His face has crumpled at his father’s words, but you stare at him imploringly, begging him silently not to cry and show his father how good a production he’s capable of putting on. You've played and acted out all sorts of scenarios with William and his toys in the past, but you’re sure that Mycroft has little idea of his son’s storytelling ability, despite your best attempts to inform him about such a thing and more than that how much he enjoys it all. 

 

William must pick up on some message from your face for he inclines his head ever so slightly at you, before his gaze goes back to his father and he says, “Not long I expect Father.”

 

“Good,” Mycroft nods, putting his pocket watch away and leaning back in the settee. It’s not as comfortable as the one at home and he frowns. 

 

Not wanting to miss a thing you remain perched on the edge. 

 

The show begins with a bit of narration from William who takes off his robe to reveal his black shirt and trousers with silver waistcoat and you find yourself inwardly cooing. 

 

“Doesn't he look smart?” Mrs. Hudson exclaims fondly and you find yourself agreeing and thinking that he looks like a miniature version of your husband in that moment, before you frown when you catch sight of Mycroft’s nose wrinkling. You can’t know that he’s inwardly fighting with himself with part of him wanting to remain cool and another side of him wanting to show outward pride for how smart and well-groomed William looks. It doesn’t occur to him that the latter is exactly what you want from him. 

 

Then you see a bit of Mary-played very funnily by Sherlock who exits from behind the backdrop wearing a white dressing room over his clothes and who has bare feet-and Joseph’s-hence William’s stripy robe-daily lives. Between them they play every character and use a variety of props and costumes that can be applied quickly to help them tell the tale. 

 

Sherlock, in-character as Mary, places a dramatic hand against his forehead when he starts to feel unwell and suspect that something’s wrong, which even gets Mycroft’s lip twitching upward, whilst Mrs. Hudson and you laugh. But it is after that initial introduction and when Mary gets a text of all things that the play really takes a more interesting turn. Sherlock, in-character, gets the phone out of his pocket and frowns. 

 

“Oh my goodness,” he says in a high-pitched tone, “This text says that I am with-child. What on earth can it mean?” 

 

The backdrop behind him, which had been on Nazareth still, rotates, revealing a new office backdrop that has a desk in front of it, behind which sits William in a three-piece, grey, pinstripe suit, white shirt, red tie and silver tie pin. He looks even more like a mini-Mycroft in that moment; his desk full of fake papers, whilst he holds his phone in his hand and you feel a pang as you once more see how clearly just how much William wants to impress Mycroft. The glass that’s off to the side of your son and half-full of amber liquid however makes you frown. “Don’t worry Mum, it’s only apple juice,” William says, breaking from character for a moment. Mycroft lets out a bit of a chuckle at that and you smile, feeling relieved. William looks pleased, but a prominent clearing of Sherlock’s throat gets your son back on track and his face drops into a more serious expression. He presses at a button that’s sealed within one of his cuffs and you gasp as two, large, white fluffy wings pop out from either side of him. Mrs. Hudson starts and puts a hand on her chest in shock. “It means,” William says, back in character and attempting a rumbling tone as he tries to answer Mary’s question. You suddenly realize that he’s trying to sound like Mycroft, something which makes you feel like you’re both happy and sad after how you’ve been feeling about Mycroft lately. “That you’re with child,” your son says with a bit of a staged wink and a lopsided smile. It reminds you of Mycroft so much that as you let out a laugh it’s a fond one. Mycroft shifts beside you and puts his arm on the back of the settee behind you. You look at him and swallow as he meets your gaze steadily for a moment, before you look away again. You’re not quite sure what to make of him wanting to be close to you when you still feel a bit annoyed for all his earlier behaviour and the fact that even now he probably can’t see just how much William is trying to amaze him. 

 

“What?” Sherlock asks as Mary, still looking down at his text in astonishment. “But how can I be with-child when Joseph and I haven’t even done the dirty?”

 

You laugh a bit and flush in embarrassment at the use of such language around your son. Mycroft moves forwards and curls his arm around your shoulders. You look at him with wide eyes, before you shift away from him uncomfortably, apologizing when your leg taps a little against Mrs. Hudson’s. Mycroft’s arm falls down disappointedly. His fingers come to clutch at the edge of the settee. His mind whirs. He wishes again that he knew what you wanted from him, so that you might act a bit more warmly towards him. 

 

“You got that text today,” William says in full Archangel Gabriel mode, “As a message from God. A sign, through me, that He has gifted you His Son who Joseph and you must raise. One day the life growing inside you will come to be very important indeed.” You look at Mycroft, wondering if he’s remembering your own pregnancy and the fears and hopes that had swirled inside you both, before at last the time had come for you to give birth. As he looks back at you, you can tell from the soft light that’s inside his eyes that he is. You look back at William. “You must do your best to take care of him and know that one day he will do the same to you when you get old.”

 

Sherlock as Mary nods, before something seems to come to him and he asks, “But Joseph and I must go to Bethlehem. How will I get there in my condition?” When no answer comes, Sherlock, in-character, worries, “Perhaps I shall have to travel by donkey?”

 

“Fool!” the voice of William, no the Archangel Gabriel says, “Just call for a black car to take you there.”

 

A burst of laughter escapes your lips and you feel all the more pleased when Mycroft chuckles, clutching at your hand. Perhaps this will be the moment that he has a break through. You look at him and your eyes lower quickly to his lips, before you look away again. You don’t pull free from him though. Instead you absent-mindedly twist your hand and stroke your thumb over his knuckle, encouraging him. He shifts closer to you, before he pulls his hand away from yours and puts his arm around your shoulder. This time, leaning back a little, you don’t remove it. Instead you wriggle pleasantly when it slides down to your waist and he kisses quickly at your shoulder. That’s better you think. 

 

Mary and Joseph take a black car all the way to Bethlehem, before they run into problems when they realize that they've forgotten the reservation number of the five-star hotel they’re trying to check into. Usually there wouldn't be a problem, but since the computer systems are down the receptionist-a woman, Sherlock quickly informs you, reverting to how he is on a case, who longs for a baby herself and has had many failed IVF attempts-has to take them on trust and she doesn’t, taking against Mary in her bitterness. 

 

Mary and Joseph have barely left the hotel, let alone had a chance to think of their next move when Mary’s contractions begin. They go to the alleyway that’s next to the hotel and Sherlock really goes for it at that point, wailing so loud that you’re worried that Mrs. Turner next door might call the police. You get close to giggling when you think of Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan rushing in and witnessing Sherlock pretending to give birth and rolling around on the floor. He writhes and reaches towards you all. His hand seems particularly inclined to reach towards his brother and Mycroft shifts his trouser leg away from him. You smile when you look at him and see that he looks just as pale and uncertain as he had when you’d given birth. You’d forced him to sit by you as you had done and you’d squeezed at his hand so tight and threatened several times to destroy his umbrella if he dared show any signs of fainting or wanting to leave. He’d sat perfectly upright and looked more nervous than you. Letting out a bit of a laugh in the present you clasp at his hand reassuredly. He seems to be remembering the past too and it takes him a moment of swallowing, before he can come out of it and look at you in acknowledgement. 

 

Mary meanwhile finally gives birth to Jesus in a small recycling bin and your lip twitches when you see that the toy baby that William, as Joseph pulls from behind Sherlock, who sits rather awkwardly with splayed legs on the green contraption, has auburn hair. William lifts the doll up in a _‘Lion King’_ fashion, before he stands and goes back to narrator mode to inform you that due to the fact there were no stars out and that Mary hadn’t posted about her pregnant status on _‘Facebook’_ the only offering that could be made to the baby was a crumpled up brown paper bag from _‘McDonald's’_ that had a half eaten cheese burger inside it. 

 

As the play comes to an end and Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and you all get to your feet you clap loudly as Sherlock and William, looking breathless but pleased, take their bows. 

 

William’s eyes dart to yours and when they see that you’re looking at him out of shiny, fond eyes and practically bursting with pride at this evening of entertainment that he’s given you, they go to look at Mycroft. Your son looks so hopeful and so much like little Rosa waiting for a treat that it makes you nudge at your husband. Before he can do anything more than look at you though William says, “Did you like it Father?”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, looking at his pocket watch again and you scowl. “It was nice to see an auburn haired Jesus for once.” His mind is already moving onto the conversation that he needs to have with you. 

 

William’s face falls. You push at Mycroft again and he puts his pocket watch away, before he looks at you. “Did you want something my dear?”

 

You could strangle him. But instead you just grab at his arm and turn towards him slightly as you hiss underneath your breath, “Go and talk to him. Tell him how proud you are.” Mycroft swallows and looks from you to William for a moment. Is that what you want? “He’s not going to know otherwise. He’s smart, but you need to be explicit about things like this.” Mycroft, looking at you, suddenly gets that, that _is_ what you want. Looking back at William he swallows again. His son stares back at him out of serious eyes. 

 

“William?” he says as you let go of him and pray to God for a good outcome. “Could I have a word?” William’s face crumples up even more. Is his father about to tell him off for being disrespectful or something?

 

“Try and not make it sound like you’re angry with him,” you breathe to your husband, acting as coach now. 

 

But William simply says dutifully, “Yes Father,” as he pushes his own feelings of regret and sadness that he might have just done something to make his father unhappy back down. Mycroft leads him off to the kitchen. 

 

The eldest Holmes’s nose wrinkles in distaste at the sight of the cluttered and stained kitchen table, which is full of his brother’s ghastly experiments. William joins him, staring down at them, and Mycroft puts a hand down on the boy’s shoulder to distract him. “I want you to know,” Mycroft says, taking a deep breath and praying that this will be enough to right things with you, “That I am very pleased with what you’ve just done.”

 

“You are?” William asks, his voice sounding awed. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft goes on awkwardly, squeezing at his son’s shoulder a little in the hope that he’ll talk more quietly from now on. He doesn’t want Sherlock coming and interrupting, or worse still of his brother to accuse him of being soft, though he supposes that the game is rather up on that one considering how he’s got William and you now. “You were very creative and clever to re-enact the story in such a way.” He chews on his lip for a moment as William looks up at him imploringly. “I'm very proud of you, and you must know that I always am-well, aside from that incident where you left school and came here. That made your mother worry, and I was also troubled, but aside from that”- he breaks off with a discomfited little smile. 

 

William can’t stop the beam from spreading over his face even though he tries to for he knows that Father often prefers to be serious about all things. “Thank you Father,” he says, before he can’t keep himself from wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s middle any longer. 

 

Mycroft lets out an ‘Oof,’ and looks around quickly. Seeing that no one else’s gaze is upon them aside from yours-Sherlock is thankfully immersed in talking to Mrs. Hudson-and that you’re, much to his relief, looking rather much like the cat whose got the cream, Mycroft pats at his son’s hair quickly as the boy pulls back from him. “Very well. Why don’t you go and see your mother now William? I'm sure that she’s waiting to tell you just how proud of you she is.”

 

William nods and races off to you hurriedly. He hugs you enthusiastically, whilst you brush at his hair and say, “You were fabulous darling. It was the best play I’ve ever seen. I'm so proud of you.”

 

Hoping that, that bit of awkwardness might have done the trick to make you pleased with him once more Mycroft goes over to you. 

 

As William goes off to talk to his uncle you murmur, “I'm proud of you husband,” with a considering coolness and kiss him on the cheek, before you leave him for Mrs. Hudson. 

 

Feeling pleased but still getting the sense that you want more from him even now and that you’re not taking it for granted that this moment of affection between father and son will last Mycroft stares after you. 

 

*

 

Once you get home you light your traditional red Christmas Eve candle upon the black mantelpiece that’s over the fireplace, before you all gather around it. Once William and you have said what you’re thankful for-family and the sweets that Mrs. Hudson had given him, before you’d left in William’s case and family and friends in yours-you look at Mycroft expectantly. He closes his eyes for a moment, before he takes one of William’s hands and one of yours. He strokes at them for a moment and your breath hitches inside your chest. William peers up at his father. 

 

“I am grateful,” Mycroft says, opening his eyes and knowing that this is a moment he should use to repair things with you even more, “For the fact that my parents are alive, healthy and able to advise and care for my brother and I, along with their grandson.” He smiles a little at William, before he looks up at the candle again. You squeeze at his fingers encouragingly just like you’d done all those years ago when he’d finally confessed his love for you. “For the fact that my brother continues to be here with us despite the dangerous nature of his job and I hope that I will continue to be able to protect him.” You shift your position. The thought of anything bad ever happening to Sherlock does not sit well with you. Not only do you know that it would devastate Mycroft, but you also know that he’d find it hard to ever recover from such a thing. “I'm also grateful for”-as he looks at you, you turn your head tentatively away from the candle towards him-“The beautiful wife that I have been gifted”-William pulls a bit of a face, but soon desists when he realizes that everyone’s ignoring him and his parents only have eyes for each other-“Who has made my life much more bearable and who has continued to stand by me even when I show little appreciation for her and get on her nerves.” You let out a little burst of laughter. “I can only hope that she will be by my side this time next year and for all the years after.”

 

“I will never leave you,” you state clearly and Mycroft squeezes at your hand. 

 

“I am grateful too of course for my son,” Mycroft goes on, and his eyes go to William now. “Today he has reminded me more than ever just how capable he is and I hope that he will continue to nurture his talents and use them wisely. I hope that he will never waste them and that he will continue to make his mother and I proud. If he does all of this then I feel sure that we will have a very happy future indeed.” Mycroft finishes there and you kiss him on his cheek. William does the same when Mycroft bends down. Then, after Mycroft blows out the candle, you all head to bed.

 

*

 

“I love you,” you say to your husband once you’re both lying there underneath the glow of the soft bedside lamp. Mycroft turns his head to look at you. “I meant what I said,” you roll towards him, “I'm never going to leave you.” Mycroft moves towards you and you fidget with the collar of the grey t-shirt that he’s wearing. You’re in a pair of pink pyjamas tonight. 

 

“That’s a relief. I was starting to worry that if I didn't work out what you wanted from me soon that such a thing might actually become an option to you,” Mycroft says and his face does seem to genuinely clear as the impact of what you’ve just told him sinks in more. 

 

“No,” you breathe, pressing closer to him and stroking down his side, “I just”- your hand stills and Mycroft looks at you intently as your eyes fix thoughtfully upon his collarbone. “It’s like I said earlier”-you look up at him again-“As much as our son has inherited your clever genes”-Mycroft suddenly looks proud and you suppress a smile. Your fingers fidget against his collar-“Since he takes after me in some areas sometimes he needs reassurance that he’s on the right track and that you love him.” You look down for a moment, before you say with a bit of a smile on your face, “He’s not the only one,” as you look up at him again. You look a little shyer now, chewing on your lip.

 

Feeling relieved that he knows what you want this time Mycroft says, “I love you,” without hesitation.

 

“Good,” you murmur, kissing him and soon you’re both indulging in another Christmas Eve tradition of yours.


End file.
